Putting the Dog to Sleep
by ffanon
Summary: Written by me, consulted by Plestex716 and Janesbiotch; Depending on your point of view, Patrick Jane's life could be seen as one large collection of tragedies. Now what's one more added to the mix? Although, this tragedy may affect those around him more than himself. Warning: Angst like woah & trigger warning for cancer.


The only noise in the room is the soft sound of her coffee cup's rim hitting the top of her desk as she sets it down, this is followed by the gentle brush of fabric as she sheds her jacket and places it across the back of her chair, and then the hum as she boots up her computer.

This is followed by footsteps as she stands and crosses the room, stopping at her the small table and glancing over the folders spread across it, she's reaching for one when the door opens.

She glances over her shoulder and gives a small smile, something closer to a smirk at the man poking his head in, "Oh, so you decided to show up today, Jane?" She asks.

The man in question smiles, and seeps in through the crack he'd made and leaves the door ajar. "Was I missed that much?" He asks, tossing her a white paper bag; which she promptly catches as he walks over to the chair in front of her desk at takes a seat; by the moment he sinks into the chair, she's peeking into the bag, nimble fingers folding back its edges.

"A bear claw," She muses as she dips her head, and then lifts it; "You must have done something pretty bad to feel the need to get me one of these."

Jane, from where he sits tilts his head back, twisting slightly in his seat; "Why can't you just assume I got that out of the goodness of my heart, that I must have done something in order to get you your favorite food?"

She snorts and takes the pastry from the bag, "I'm a nice person, so I'm not gonna answer that."

He chuckles softly at her response and twists around in his chair, facing forward once more; and she crosses the room, rounding her desk and plopping down in her own seat, scooting forward and flattening the bag with one hand; then placing the pastry on top of that, and then casually asking; "So where were you yesterday?" Her eyes flick up at her words; and she fakes disinterests, but he catches the emotions flickering through her eyes – the deep, well buried suspicion and the nightmares; he wonders if she even knows that those are there, and as her fingers skim across the keyboard and her eyes flick up once more – he knows, that she knows; and that it's something that will go unspoken.

He shifts in his chair and his fingers flutter in his lap, he clears his throat and answers, just as far from sounding casual as it had when she had asked, "I had a doctor's appointment."

Her fingers still, just barely and her eyes flick up again, the fairest hint of a smirk plays at the edges of her lips. "One that lasted all day?" She asks, and he squirms again; wishing he could stop.

"I hadn't been in a while."

She nods then, accepting the truth, and after a few moments she opens her mouth, letting the moment and short conversation float into the air without hesitation, she lets it go – it's nothing seemingly abnormal about it, at least for her; while for him it's the exact opposite; this conversation has the potential to give birth to a new reality.

"So as far as our main suspect goes, I know you don't like him for it but I say Matt –"

He see's now in his former revelation, that he could let it go too; he doesn't have to tell her, she would never have to know, he could let this conversation vanish into the air completely and never bring it up again – she'd probably never bring up the doctor's appointment again, it's a normal routine, she's got no reason to question it; but for some reason, something deep inside him won't let him do that, he has to tell her. He has to tell someone – and in the end she's the only person he can tell, so instead of joining her in the topic of the case he skips right over it – blurting out the words.

"I've got cancer."

Her hands are the very first thing that still, one still hovering above the keyboard; going for the next letter, the other reaching for the now room temperature pastry, and he watches, as her hands fall; one resting on the keyboard, the other on her desk, as she processes the information, her eyes getting a little wider as seconds begin to tick by, and eventually rise to hold his gaze.

She then promptly stares at him – and he counts, keeping track of the stillness in the room, and all its underlying currents of something more; he counts how many times her shoulders rise in the next minute as she breaths, she's afraid to move, subconsciously at least, and so is he.

Then she opens her mouth, her stance remains rigid and sharp; "A – Are you serious?" She asks, and then quickly back tracks, "I didn't mean it like that, it's not that I don't believe you it's just, you're you Jane and –"

He nods; and cuts her off, "Your well within your reasons to doubt me, Teresa."

Moments later, he regrets the use of her first name as he watches her face crumple; realization settles over it fairly quickly; that he's not lying, this tucks away and morphs into sadness and takes hold in the shadows underneath her eyes, and the light that is normally held in the green orbs of color vanishes from view completely.

She swallows and he watches as any glimpse of emotion is wrapped up and tucked away, she opens her mouth to speak; but nothing comes out, and he knows the question she's trying to ask, but she's unsure how to phrase it, unsure and maybe unable to get the dreadful and earth shattering words from her mouth – or at least, he thought this but is proved wrong because she begins speaking; proving to him how strong she truly is.

"What's the diagnoses, Jane, is it fatal or treatable?"

He shifts in his chair, and clears his throat; now it's his turn to force words he'd rather not speak.

"It's a brain tumor," He begins.

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She stares at the man sitting before her, trying to find a way to push past the sudden lump in her throat, a way for her brain to start working once more; a way for her to be able to feel something; but it's like she's trapped under a impossibly thick wall of glass – she can't do anything except listen and she certainly can't speak.

So instead; she watches as he shifts in his chair and the diagnoses flows from his mouth, never pausing, never hitching, and never once changing his tone.

"It's a brain tumor." It's an opening statement, to a much larger than life topic.

"Glioblastoma to be exact," His eyes flick up, and for a moment he holds her gaze; his eyes waver slightly, and she watches as glaze melts away and then he lowers his eyes to the floor, staring at the horizon made by her desk before lifting his gaze for a final time, and hers as he speaks; leaning forward slightly, appearing almost desperate for her attention. "Fatal without treatment, and fatal with treatment. Without treatment, I've got a chance of four and a half months, and with treatment maybe, at most, fifteen months to live." He lifts one hand and scratches at the back of his head, and clears his throat, "Treatment consists of, well – possible treatments are chemotherapy, radiation and surgery."

That lump has only gotten bigger and everything suddenly doesn't seem real – or maybe the exact opposite, the room is humming, her skin is crawling and her heart is pounding in her chest, she swallows and her vision swims; the words bubble in her ears and she is left desperately grasping for straws in this new, harsh, and above all painfully cold reality; and she can't find any, and she swallows again, trying to get past the churning bile in her stomach, chest and throat.

She clears her throat, and venom spreads down the back of her vocal cords, and her vision swims once more; the silhouette that makes up Jane blurs, and unblurs; blooming into a harsh focus, and she inhales softly, trying to get her heart to slow – and failing, she blinks and then continues grasping for straws – she finds one, the man before her; and then above all, she finds the ability to speak, her eyes unglossing and through her sight she clings to him; and now everything churning and flickering past underneath them, everything that normally goes unspoken, things that should go ignored, things, thoughts and feelings hidden in the shadows of their hearts but very real, are no longer in the shadows but instead have been dragged kicking and screaming into the sunlight of their minds.

The conversation devours the things in the sunlight, and uses the energy from it all to continue, changing the tone of the words.

"You're getting treatment – right?"

He hesitates, and she has her answer.

It's enough to make her jump up, to make the blood rush through her veins, to make every single thing she's feeling – the fear, and everything else come to stop and be replaced by the pure, unadulterated shock.

"What the hell are you thinking Jane –" She hisses, and part of her wavers; she knows it's his decision, and that yanks her down; yanks her down to places unknown, and in this moment; tears shove against the edges of her eyes, and suddenly she doesn't know what to feel as seconds begin to tick by. "Jane –" Her voice cracks, and she finds herself sitting back down, scrubbing a hand across her face; and all the while she's trying to get past the thunderstorm going on inside and focus on the precious moment happening in this now new reality, the aftermath of it's birth.

He clears his throat, and when he speaks; his voice is impossibly soft, careful, as though he's treading on glass. "I've seen, what cancer treatment does to people, Teresa –" He leans forward in his chair; she hears the shift in the wood, the brush of fabric against the sides, and she hears the soft thump as his hands curl around the horizon of her desk. "It –"He pauses and clears his throat, "It destroys the people they are, before they start treatment, it weakens and breaks them until they are nothing more than echoes of themselves –"He clears his throat again; and this time she hears the ragged and ugly noise with a new sort of light, how sharp and broken it sounds, and her hands drop away from her face and she see's now, that he's trying not to cry. "I don't want to become an echo, Lisbon." His eyes flick towards the door, and then back to her.

"I would get treatment, if it wasn't fatal, if I had a chance to begin with, but I don't and I don't want to die as some shriveled up version of the person I am now–"He pauses then.

And she takes the opportunity presented before her to speak, "Jane."

He then precedes the shut his mouth, staring at her; waiting for her to continue.

She then stands, not bothering to grab her jacket from where it's laid across the chair behind her, but instead snatching up her keys and ignoring the slightly confused look Jane sends in her direction, she also ignores the glimmer of realization that crosses his face.

"Lisbon –"

"Jane," She snaps, looking up from her desk; she swallows then, attempting to find some sort of even ground. "Just, please, alright. Let's talk this through, I know and respect that it's your decision in the end, but please, think this through before you make any final decisions." She rounds her desk after she finishes speaking, her head dipping down slightly and she blinks a few times – wrapping up the pressure against the edges of her eyes and banishing it, she lifts her head as she steps behind him, opening the door and then waiting for him.

He twists in his chair, glancing over his shoulder at her and stares; blinking, and saying nothing, she does the same and eventually he pushes himself up with a resigned sigh and walks out the door, brushing past her as she goes; and after a few seconds she follows, listening to the way the door clicks shut.

She can't help but feel it sounded different when she shut it this morning.

And she gets the feeling it will never sound the same again.

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She drives, there's no surprise in that; it had been a silent agreement the moment she picked up her keys, and been confirmed when Jane made no effort to steer them in the direction of his car when they entered the parking garage.

It's silent as she gets into her car, starts it; the only noise is made when Jane climbs into the passenger seat and shuts his door, and the only noise made again is when she pulls onto the main road and Jane attempts to turn the radio on; she promptly presses the button again, turning the radio off, the sharp click of the button is the final noise before she speaks.

"Alright, why are you really against treatment?"

He hesitates before answering, "Lisbon, I already gave you my reasons."

She shakes her head in response, turning the corner. "What you told me is not main reason here, Jane and I doubt you would care what others thought of you if you became a echo of yourself, you know that we wouldn't think any different of you." she doesn't have to explain who _we _is.

His response is silence.

And so is hers.

He speaks fifteen minutes later, his voice is clipped, but relaxed as he tells her, "Turn here and take the left when you come to it." And she does just that.

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The hospital's front is a deep auburn color with a dark brown tinted roof, and relatively small. She finds herself a bit unsurprised by the size of it as she steps from her car and shuts the door; she rounds the vehicle and watches as the reason she's here climbs out, every movement coated over with hesitation.

They don't walk side by side, instead he's a few inches behind her; this shows her just how far his diswant for this goes, and as she gets closer to the doors she spots the white edges of the hospital peeking out at the sides; maybe it's not as small as she thought.

She stops, just outside the doors and turns around to face him.

"Go ahead, you first."

He frowns at her for a few moments, and she returns the look; one that screams she won't budge on this decision, and she makes it clear he knows this.

It's her edge that compels and pushes him to go inside first, and she follows; eventually picking up her pace match his, and she follows him as he walks to the front desks, lists out names that are foreign to her and the previous appointment.

Neither of them miss the look of sympathy the larger woman at the front desk gives them, and in response they give her two matching tight smiles and take their seats in the waiting lounge, with its dim lighting and deep shades of brown and blue painted walls, a almost comfortable environment; the only default being that it's the waiting room of a hospital.

The first ten minutes are made up of silence, and then Jane speaks.

"I wasn't going to tell you originally; maybe I should have stuck with that plan." His tone is dark and cold; merciless, but those are all underlying factors, on the surface his voice sounds eerily calm, with a twist of sarcastic humor.

It all ignites something in her, something that she had spent the car ride tamping down and she's not about to let it go, so she speaks; keeping her voice light, careful. "And why is that?"

"Why is what?" He asks, clearly playing dumb.

"Why weren't you going to tell me, and why should you have stuck with that plan of not telling me."

He glances in her direction; and this blossoms into one of the rare occasions he lets his mask fall, and she's granted by seeing the hesitation and very small amounts of disgust, undoubtly in himself, in his features, but he clears his throat and eventually speaks. "I knew my decision would hurt you, Lisbon and I didn't want that." His voice is tiny, small, almost childlike; he's afraid and ashamed.

She's silent in the following moments and then clears her throat, "Jane if I didn't want to get hurt by you, I would have fired your ass a long time ago." She pauses and dips her head slightly as she nods, "I'll admit – I don't approve of your decision, to not get this treatment and I'm asking you to reconsider – that's why we're here after all, but if after this you still truly feel as though you don't want treatment then –" She clears her throat again, the noise is small and ragged; "Then I will stand by you, no matter what." She twists in her chair to look at him, and finds he's already staring at her, a small amount of surprise flickering across his features, replacing the early disgust.

He blinks and then dips his head, to hold her gaze a bit longer, "Thank you, Teresa." He lets out a sigh at the end of her name that is souly made of relief.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction, "So you'll consider it?" She pauses, "Please, just give me that, Jane."

He doesn't hesitate before he answers, "I'll consider it."

She nods, and after a few seconds speaks again, "Thank you."

All he does is nod.

The next fifteen minutes go by in complete and utter silence, the only voice is the occasional response of the woman at the front desk as she answers the phone, and eventually the door on the far side opens and a woman, obviously a nurse – sticks her head out. "Mr. Jane?" She calls, and Jane rises from his seat, glancing over his shoulder when Lisbon doesn't move, and after a short staring contest she does move, pushing her frame up from her seat and coming to stand next to him, walking after him when he strides across the room.

"Mr. Jane friends and family –"

"She's with me." Is his response, his tone leaving no room for an argument and he brushes right past the nurse, sliding through the gap made by her and the ajar door, Lisbon sends a sympathetic look in her direction and apologizes, and then promptly goes to catch up with Jane; her pace close to jogging to catch up with his long strides.

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The room they end up in is surprisingly the first well lit room she's seen in this hospital; the walls are painted a light shade of blue, the tiles are a cross breed of grey and white. It's relatively small, with two chairs, which they are currently sitting in, on the left wall and before them is a desk with a computer and across from them is a set of counter and cabinets and to their left is an examination table.

They also sit in silence for the next fifteen minutes; up until the moment when a balding man in his fifties slides in through the door, a file tucked underneath his arm; a surprised expression climbing vividly up his features as he spots the pair in the room.

"I'm assuming Nancy attempted to do her job and tell you friends and family aren't allowed back here, and you ignored her completely?" The man states, though it comes out as a question.

Jane dips his head slightly, lifting his head from where it had been resting against the fist made by his left hand. "She needs to be here," Is all he says.

"Does she have a name?" The doctor asks as he steps into the room, and then shutting the door behind him, and in the same moment Lisbon crosses the short distant and shakes the man's free hand, "Teresa Lisbon, I'm a friend and coworker of Jane's."

The doctor nods, shaking her hand in return before releasing it. "You must be important then." He states, and to Lisbon's small frown he continues, "I've never heard, or meant anyone in Patrick's personal life, in fact it's been a while since I last saw him, and you can take a seat."

Lisbon takes her seat once more, glancing over at Jane as she does so; his face is blank, impassive and the doctor across from them, who's nametag she can now see as he places the folder on his desk reads; _M. Card_ takes his seat then promptly leans forward.

"You changed your mind then, I presume?"

"I'll change it, when you can convince me to change it."

To Lisbon's surprise, Dr. Card is able to skip right over this, pulling out papers and scans from within the folder and laying them out before the pair. "Your tumor rests at the very top right edge of your frontal lobe and is spreading into

"Well given the location, and size of your tumor if we act now, we can remove as much as it as possible." He pauses, and points to one of the scans, "Your tumor is at the very top, and front of the frontal lobe, and because of that, like I said earlier we could most likely get most of it out and cause the parietal lobe. Your frontal lobe, as you know is in charge of short-term memory, planning and attention span, motivation, but it's not the main one at risk, given that the tumor is only slightly imbedded into the frontal lobe." He pauses and his hand stills on the graining image lying on the table, he points to small sliver of lighter gray; and then his finger descends on the rest of the ugly gray blob. "The main risk factor here is damaging your parietal lobe, given how imbedded into that section it is. Your parietal lobe is in charge of nerves, knowledge, keeping track of numbers and languages, those sorts of things."

He pauses and leans back, "Damage by surgery, is very slim in this case but still could happen, and if it did your motor skills would undoubtly decline in the slightest way, you may find yourself forgetting things and your vision may get worse. But the risk for that is very small, and after surgery, if that's what you decide we will then begin with weekly visits back here, for radiation or chemotherapy."

Jane says nothing, and the man before them continues as though he did.

"If you're going to go through with treatment, or go against it Mr. Jane I highly suggest you get a roommate, or at the very least allow me to send a nurse home with you because your condition could get worse at any moment, and if you refuse this, I will have to keep you in the hospital and we both know you'd rather not have that." His tone takes on an edge that only grows as he continues speaking.

"I –"Jane begins to speak, the mask from his face lifting, but Lisbon cuts him off.

"He'll be staying with someone." Is all she says, her face is now impassive, her tone holding a strong edge, and Jane glances in her direction, and she stares right back, a silent tone taking hold of the room; _Go on, argue with me, I dare you_.

Jane eventually looks away, and back to the man before him. "I'll be staying with someone then." Card smiles and nods, looking between Jane and Lisbon before standing, and in the same movement gently ushering the papers back into the folder, "I assume you two will want to discuss this furthermore, I'll be right outside, or you don't have to make a decision today but if you have the slightest idea of getting the treatment I urge you to make one today." And with that, he's gone; the door clicking softly in his wake, leaving the pair alone in eerily silent room.

Neither of them makes the move to speak.

In fact, they both do it at the same time; Jane stutters slightly whilst Lisbon dives head first into the topic, "The risk factors are relatively low Jane, as low as they could _get_ –" She stops imidetly, turning and looking at him, waiting for him to continue speaking.

His expression is fragile, his eyes a bit glossy; his mouth dipped down, "I can't do it." Is what his soft confession after a few seconds, and with its wake Lisbon stands, sliding past the desk and going to stand before him, dropping to one of her knees.

"Can you tell me, why?" She asks; and her tone matches his face, it's careful, tiny; delicate and soft.

His eyes don't rise to hold her gaze; instead he's focusing on the far right corner of the room.

"Jane," She prompts softly after a few moments, "I respect that this is your final decision, but I'd like to know why, please."

His eyes flick up to meet hers and he frowns slightly, "You're not going to try harder to get me to change my mind?" He asks and then promptly snorts, "You seemed very keen on doing that this morning."

She doesn't miss a beat, "And that's why I brought you here, with the full intention of having you change your mind, but it obviously didn't work and now we both know that the reason you gave this morning for not wanting treatment is complete bullshit, and as your friend, as your partner, Jane. I'd like to know the real one."

He drops her gaze once more, sucking in a breath and letting it out in a sigh, and then lifting a hand to scrub a his face. When he inhales again the noise is wet, tinkling on the edge of bursting into tears and before him Lisbon looks crestfallen.

"I'm going to die anyway," He begins and she doesn't respond, she focuses on the man before her instead of what feels like gunfire going through her heart and head, and waits for him to continue; only he doesn't.

She clears her throat, and waits a few more seconds and then stands, turning away from him; her crestfallen look slowly rebuilding into a mask, but her voice still cracks when she speaks; the words wet and sloppy, "Alright then, it's your decision." She clears her throat and it sounds like broken glass and feels just the same. "But your still staying with me," she turns around to face him, only to find him looking at the floor.

"I killed them, why should I get to live any longer."

It's not a question, but a statement; and as it flows from his lips it sounds like a well rehearsed line of a play.

And with that sentence, the world spins; for a moment it physically feels like the grounds been yanked out from underneath her feet, and she's falling backwards; this, this confession had been buried underneath the ground for the past decade, and it's finally climbed out of Hell, leaving behind a gaping hole.

She'd known about it, heard it lurking when she walked; felt the earth shift to adjust it, she just never expected it to see the light of day, at least not while Red John was still alive somewhere.

She turns around completely then, and takes a step forward and does something she knows is a completely surprise to him; she pulls him from the chair, and into her arms, hugging him tightly; wrapping her arms around him until she's sure it might be a bit painful.

She rests her chin on his shoulder; her head tilted upwards, and she speaks, ignoring the tightness in her throat as she does; and she blames it on the unnatural angle of her neck. "It's not your fault they died," And before he can object she continues, "They wouldn't want this for you –"

He cuts her off then, his voice ragged and broken; his hands twitch at his sides. "They're dead, they don't want anything."

Personally, she disagrees with that statement but now is not the time for that discussion.

"If they had known, this would happen in the long run, they wouldn't want you to refuse treatment as a form of self inflicted punishment."

He's silent.

And she's got her answer, she knows she couldn't change his mind no matter how hard she tried, this statement, that idea, has been his law, his golden rule for the past decade and just because another force has come hurling and spinning into their lives doesn't make it any less important; he's been telling himself that undotubly for the past decade, every single day; carried it every day, for the past decade.

And after a few more seconds his arms lift from his sides, wrapping around her in an embrace, holding her against him, his head is bent and tucked against her neck.

Seconds tick by, morphing in to a cold silence when finally he speaks.

"All right, I'll try."

She blinks; her eyes fluttering, her heart jumps in her chest, and distantly she hears a soft, very muffled wail; she realizes a few seconds later, with the tears trickling down her cheeks that she made that noise. She swallows and promptly cuts the noise off, choking it down and then speaks, clearing her throat. "Thank you."

He doesn't reply, but instead slowly releases her; his hands dropping back to his sides, and with one he gestures towards the door, she waits a few moments and then goes; sliding through the door as she opens it and in her wake, he follows.

Dr. Card is standing a few feet down the hall, glancing over the posters attached to the wall, and he turns towards them and when he does it's Jane who speaks first.

"I'll get the treatment."

The man's lips turn up in the barest hint of a smile, and he crosses the room. "Great, come back in three days and we'll get you prepped for surgery then."

It's Jane who frowns, but Lisbon who speaks, "Why three days from –"

Card cuts her off, shaking his head slightly as he talks. "I need to go over the scans and decide the best way to handle this with my coworkers, and I assume you have some matters that need to be finalized as well, Mr. Jane."

The man in question looks grim for a moment, but nods; turning to go, tugging slightly on Lisbon's wrist and she goes to follow but Dr. Card grabs for her attention at the last second, handing her a slip of paper. "Call me, if his condition gets any worse."

She nods, and takes the slip and then promptly follows Jane down the hall.

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They don't go back to the CBI, instead they drive over to the motel room Jane's currently keeping.

Lisbon ignores the looks she receives from the clerk at the desk, it's very clear that Jane returns to his room alone, ninety nine percent of the time and if he isn't she's obviously intrigued as to why. She ignores the questioning look, but finds herself smiling at the little shrug and faked look of confusion Jane gives her, and then heads up the stairs.

Jane points her to his room and in the next few minutes there pulling out his few personal belongings; stripping the rooms of any proof he ever lived there, it was a silent decision to do this on the car ride over.

And as she picks up an arm full of dry cleaned suits she turns slightly in his direction, lifting her gaze from the gray bundles in her arms and asks, "Are you sure about this?"

He stills in the makeshift kitchen; tea cup in hand, he'd been in the middle of pulling out the few cups from their assigned cupboards, and doesn't turn when he speaks. "Yes." The word is followed by the soft clink of the cup against the counter.

She waits a few moments, folding the suits down her arms, making sure she's got a good grip on them, an excuse to stay in the room a few moments longer, and when he doesn't speak again she turns; heading and walking out of the door, and just as she's stepped out he speaks.

"Lisbon?"

She moves her gaze from the hallway before her and looks back into the room, "Yes?"

He glances over his shoulder, dipping his head slightly and grabs onto her gaze.

"Thank you."

She nods and gives him a tight smile, and an even tighter, "Thank you." In return, and then she's walking, her feet smacking against the flooring, and she's rounding the corner, brushing through the lobby and within seconds the word comes to a still; she's standing in front of the trunk of her car and reality hits her like a truck, nearly knocking the ground out from underneath her.

She swallows, and tries to stop herself from shaking; tries, and fails to focus on her breathing.

This is real.

Jane's moving in with her so she can make sure he doesn't fall over in the middle of the night and die.

This is real – he is going to die.

And there's nothing she can do.

She'd been going through the motions all morning; convince him to get treatment, take him to the doctor's, take him back home so they could get his things, except now she realizes in the end there won't be any motions to go through, with the exception of putting his body in the ground when this is all over.

The world spins again, and she blinks; staring down at the bottom of the trunk, and her gaze flicks down; and she's staring at the dark spots on the top suit in her arms and in a flurry of movement she places the suits into the trunk and lifts her hands to her face and much to her horror she realizes she's crying, and then frantically scrubs the tears away.

She can't do this, not now.

She sucks in a breath and tries to force back the reality pressing down on her shoulders.

She turns and looks back at the building; it's a murky white color, the door to the lobby at the far right, with a set of stairs leading up the middle section to a set of rooms, and slowly, she realizes this will be the last time she ever sees this building.

But she's jarred away from this realization by the sound of footsteps rounding her car; her hands flutter up to her face and with much relief she realizes it's dry – but she knows it'll just take a look and he'll know she's been crying, so she doesn't bother to scrub away any remaining evidence, not that there was any left.

She leans around the other side of her car, taking a few footsteps and eventually meeting him half way, he's got a duffle bag in one hand and a small card board box in the other, wordlessly she takes the duffle bag and in the same silence he returns to the passenger seat of the car.

She gently sets the duffle bag down, far away from the suits and then shuts the roof of the trunk, taking a few seconds and leaning against it; her hands pressing into the joints of the newly connected sections, and she sucks in a breath.

This is her life now.

She inhales again, and then lets it out slowly; she opens her eyes, not realizing she'd shut them and blinks, taking in the sight of the sunny parking lot around her, everything's changed, but at the same time it seems as though nothing has – this could be a perfectly normal day, except it isn't.

Nothing will ever be normal again.

She steps away from the trunk then, running her hand along the edge for a moment before picking up her pace and walking around to the driver's side; she slides into her seat and starts the engine and within a few moments she's on the road, she clears her throat.

"The woman at the desk thought you were to pretty to be with me."

She glances in his direction, frowning slightly at the words and he shrugs, his grip on the box in his lap tightening slightly; "Well, her exact words was a girl like that is too good for a man like you."

Her eyes flutter, and without warning she finds the words flowing naturally from her mouth, she's slipping back into their routine, as though nothings different, as though the box in his lap isn't part of a bigger picture. "Well that's just rude."

He shrugs again, smiling slightly. "She was just a rude old lady, far to invested in her clients lives, if you ask me."

She smirks to herself as she speaks, "Kinda like you, you're a rude old man who's far to invested with the lives of others."

He snorts and tilts his head in her direction, "I'm not invested, I observe."

She shakes her head, "You observe, and then become invested."

He shakes his head, and then leans back into his seat with a small sigh. "If you insist, Lisbon."

"I insist because it's true."

"It's not."

Silence takes hold of the conversation after; she shifts in her seat and clears her throat, breaking the silence again. "Do you want to tell the rest of the team?" She asks.

His silence continues for a few more moments, "They have a right to know." Is all he says in the end, and then he pauses and continues; "Could we stop by the CBI first? We can drop my things off later."

"Of course," She then promptly switches lanes, and the rest of the car ride is silent.

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"Do you want to tell him, or should I?"

"I'll tell him."

"Are you going to tell him the truth?"

A pause, and then with hesitation; "I'll decide when it comes to that."

She watches the lights on the buttons click as the elevator ascends, and then swallows and nods. "Alright."

He pauses, when he goes to speak; shifting slightly in his spot, his eyes flickering between Lisbon and the door, and then with obvious hesitation, after the pause he begins to ramble, "Will – will you come with me?" His hands fidget in front of him, twisting his wedding ring around his finger.

She nods, and with that the doors slide open with a soft ding, and the pair walk onto the floor, side by side; ignoring the heads that pop into view from the bullpen, the only thing she doesn't ignore is Cho's call of; "No case yet, Boss." She gives him a brief nod as she passes, but Cho doesn't see it, given his gaze has joined the others and is currently focused on Jane, who gives him a nod as well and flashes a smile, and then the pair is rounding the corner and heading for Wainwright's office.

Jane knocks on the door, but then after a few moment strides right into the room, leaving the door ajar for Lisbon who follows a few moments later, standing a few feet back while Jane on the other hand walks right up to the desk, and stands there; ignoring the confused look of the Chief, and staring at the man until he speaks. "Hold on, I'll call you right back." And then promptly setting the phone back into its cradle.

"This better be important, Jane. That was a very important call."

"I'll be taking a medical leave."

This catches the man's attention, he leans forward slightly, the phone now nothing more than a forgotten object; his hands come together on top of his desk and his eyebrows arch upwards in a look of concern and hesitation. "Care to elaborate on that?" He asks.

Jane shifts in his spot, crossing his arms before him.

"Not particularly," He offers.

"Well I hope it's nothing serious –"

"I've got a brain tumor and fifteen months to live I think it's pretty serious."

Wainwright's expression quickly melts into shock and terror, and his eyes flicker between Lisbon and Jane and the going to stand he begins to speak, "Are you serious –"

Jane cuts him off, turning to go; nearly storming out of the room, bidding him with, "I'll try to be in when I can between treatments."

By the time Wainwright has rounded his desk, and coming to face Lisbon, Jane is long gone, so instead of talking to the consultant he turns to face the man's best friend. "I'm sorry, Lisbon." Is all he says.

The woman in question gives him a brisk nod, and then turns; following in the footsteps.

She may be going through the movements, but Jane is running through them.

She clears the hallway, brushing past her distant coworkers and eventually finds him in the bullpen, talking to the three other members of her team; for a moment, she fears the worst and then Grace turns around, looking at her with confusion instead of horror or fear on her face, but with very raw confusion in her tone she speaks; "Your giving us the night off so we can all go out to dinner?"

Her eyes imidetly turn to Jane, who's standing in the back, distant from the other three, and he meets her gaze thankfully, and a sort of cold understanding washes over her and she drops his gaze, looking back at Grace and swallow.

"Yes, I am." Is all she says, and to her left she hears Rigsby's tiny shouts of joy.

But the noise is muffled; all her other senses are blocked, with the exception of sight but at the same time she can't seem to see anything past the pristine look of sadness on Jane's face, the raw disappointment in his eyes; that he doesn't even bother to hide as he meets her gaze.

She clears her throat and her voice is distant on her own ears as she speaks, "I'll be back around six," And then she's walking, walking up until the moment she meets him across the room, and then she's gently placing a hand on his elbow, and guiding them both from the room without another word to those in it.

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They work together, he carries the suits; she slings the duffle bag over one shoulder and carefully holds the box filled with teacups with both hands, only releasing the box when she hands it to him for a moment so she can unlock the door.

And as she opens the door, and steps inside some part of her flickers to life – a distant thought, one normally tucked away, secret and well hidden, the idea that if she ever let Jane into her apartment it wouldn't be slow and careful, but instead done in a bunch of flurry movements followed by the inedible stumble up the stairs to her bedroom, or maybe they'd end up on the floor, or the sofa.

She clears her throat and dispels the thoughts, and distantly she tells him; "I'll put the cups away."

He's silent, and she fills the silence by speaking again. "I'm sorry."

This time, he gives her a small nod and she thinks she can see a glimmer of newfound relief in his eyes, and with that he heads into the living room.

With that she heads into the kitchen, setting the box on the counter and then peeling back the covers to reveal pristine and almost delicate cups and as she pulls them from the box she focuses on the noises coming from the other room.

The sound of brushing fabric, the creaking floor boards as Jane moves about the room.

It only takes her a few moments to put away the cups; she's going through the actions, tucking the cups back and putting the tea cups and saucers up front and after she's done she finds herself taking a moment – a few precious seconds to prepare herself for the new reality of living with Jane, and then she takes a few more, with the excuse of folding the box back up and pushing it back so it touches the far wall; hidden in the corner, and then she goes, walking into the living room; to find Jane standing in front of the shelves that holds a few precious family photos and knick knacks.

"You look a lot like your mother," He says, not turning to face her as she walks into the room; the floor's creak is enough to single her arrival, but something tells her he'd know she was in the room even without the noise.

She swallows and dips her head slightly; scanning over the photos tucked neatly into frames – even though she's seen them enough times to last a life time and slowly she brings herself to speak, "I've been told that quite a bit."

He nods and then turns; holding her gaze for a few moments before letting it drop, and before her she watches as he crumbles; his frame bending in on itself and for a moment she thinks he's going to break down in sobs, but instead he sucks in a breath and looks like he's bracing himself for something.

He clears his throat, and during the noise she crosses the room; and in the end she stops, just before him and pulls him into a embrace, holding him tightly, and after a small amount of hesitation he wraps his arms around her; holding her tightly against him, squeezing her, and his head dips; pressing against hers and softly, he whispers.

"I don't want to die, Teresa."

All she can do is hold him, because she can't find a response for that statement, not yet.

And when she thinks holding him isn't enough, she holds him a bit tighter.

In the end, after she doesn't know how long, it could have been a hour or a few minutes, it's the phone that seperates them, vibrating in her pocket.

She holds his gaze as she steps back, one hand still wrapped around his waist, ignoring the numbing feeling of the vibrations spreading down her leg and when he gives her a small nod, and a gentle smile she then drops her arm, taking a few steps before answering it.

"Yes?"

Her voice is raw; and she clears it, hopping to patch up some of the damage.

"Where should we meet?" It's Cho, and she can hear the noises in the background, and at his question she turns around; glancing at the clock on wall, it's five fifty five.

She looks back at Jane, who meets her eyes after a few moments, she gives him a look and he shrugs with a small smile, though more time it's more guiene. "The café down the street."

"The breakfast place?" His tone is impassive, but she imagines he's frowning.

"That's the only café, Cho." She tells him.

"I'll see you there, then." Is his taunt reply, and with that she ends the call.

"Do you wanna change?" She asks, feeling her expression soften to match her tone as she speaks and the man in question shakes his head, sucking in a breath.

"Let's just go," He tells her, and after another minute they leave her apartment, she locks the door and they head down the hall and about halfway they both reach out; grabbing the others hand and threading their fingers together wordlessly.

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The trio is already there, and as they walk through the doors their hands fall apart; separating with obvious hesitation of both sides but completely separated by the time they are striding down to where the others sit.

The trio slides across the booth, making room for the pair; Cho sits at the far end, followed by Grace, then Rigsby, Lisbon and Jane.

The first fifteen minutes go by smoothly; few questions are asked, food is ordered and then promptly arrives, breakfast foods, Jane with a small plate of eggs, Cho and Rigsby with toast, Lisbon excuses herself of eating and Grace gets a small fruit salad topped with a sort of sugar based sauce.

In the next five minutes though, the comfort feeling of the air begins to vanish; turning grimy and tainted, and it becomes very clear that there's something that needs to be discussed, the reason for the small get together, but no one wants to bring it up.

In the end, it's Rigsby who plows through the awkwardness, asking the one question that doesn't want to be spoken. "So, any particular reason you brought us out for dinner, boss?"

The only feeling that remains is cold, and still, and at some point during those twenty minutes Jane's right hand had fallen from the table tops, resting in the curve made by the booth and in the wake of Rigsby's question, Lisbon finds herself holding onto the man's hand.

Looks are exchanged, between the trio and then sent in the pairs direction, and for a moment she sees hopes in her coworkers eyes, and the realization hits her like a truck, and she blurts out; "We're not together, if that's what you're thinking."

The disappointment on their faces proves one thing; that's what they were thinking.

"So what is it, then?" Grace asks, and Jane clears his throat; his tone is incredibly careful, almost uncaring when he speaks, he shifts though before he does; locking eyes with each of them before looking at Lisbon and then at them all together.

"I've got a brain tumor, and fifteen months to live."


End file.
